“That was really good.”
These are words I’ve uttered countless times to my dad as credits scroll on our TV. They aren’t terribly insightful words, but they are the words I can muster while I try to sort through the knot of emotions tied to me from whichever cinematic masterpiece we finished watching.
Dad and I have always called that emotion a “movie hangover.” It’s the feeling of waking up and hearing Morgan Freeman-like narrations in your head as you go about your day. It’s the weight in your chest as you recognize that you’re forever a little bit changed because two hours of men fighting in a Coliseum taught you a little bit more about strength and honor.
“Gladiator,” “Braveheart” and “Whiplash” are all examples of films guilty of sparking a movie hangover, and all of them were picked by Dad.
Dads just have a knack for picking good movies. Gritty scenes of hard-hitting dialogue preceding shots of explosive fight scenes create a story that sticks with you. But it’s not just the flashy scenery or even dramatic juxtaposition that sets these films apart. It’s the fact that they make you think.
“So, was it worth it?” Dad asked me as the film “Whiplash” came to a close. The film asks its audience if achieving perfection is worth undergoing abusive processes.
I didn’t have an answer for him. Half of me was trying to determine the answer while the other half was too busy enjoying the jazz music that still hung in the air. But Dad was able to give both sides of the argument as if they were a valid option. Clearly, he had put a lot of thought into it.
This is an ongoing pattern with Dad and me. We watch something, he makes me think about it, and I realize just how much I have yet to learn.
I cannot say whether or not this is a universal experience as I am only one girl with one dad, but it is safe to say that a major role of a father, or any parent, is to teach us how to think — not just in a “I think therefore I am” sort of way, but to truly think critically about the world around us.
Dads tend to use films as a tool for this purpose.
This past summer, Dad made me watch what may be the most “dad film” of all: “Shawshank Redemption.”
As I nestled into the couch, the smell of stovetop popcorn comforted me as I prepared to cry. I didn’t know much about the movie, but I cried at “Mr. Peabody and Sherman” so it was a safe assumption. However, no tears came. Instead, I was met with quiet contemplation as I sat with a happy ending I hadn’t seen coming.
I had just accepted the claim that “hope is a dangerous thing.” Yet, in the final scenes, Morgan Freeman’s voice kept repeating “I hope” to me, as though I was hearing the word for the first time.
There I sat, a naive 19-year-old girl, who had never really thought about what it meant to hold tightly onto hope.
I knew what hope was, and as a Christian, I knew the source of hope, but I’d never taken the time to consider what losing it looked like.
Dad was the one who taught me what hope is, and he was the one who pointed me to find it in Christ. Now he was the one who sat with my absent-minded “wows” and “yeahs” as I grappled with this newfound thought.
“Good Will Hunting,” “A Beautiful Mind” and “Remember the Titans” all could be considered “Dad Movies,” but I prefer my family’s title for them: “thinky movies.”
And if Dad ever says, “I have a good thinky movie for you. Do you want to watch it?” The answer is always: yes.
Absolutely, yes.
